Narcissit? Who me?

Friday, November 6, 2009

They say that Hope springs eternal,
but mine just trickles out.
The blasted thing; infernal;
has been rusted shut by doubt.

Or perhaps, Hope is a tiny boat,
adrift upon a stormy sea.
But my little ship does not float:
hull carved out by me.

Or Hope is clean, fresh, bright air.
But mine is thick smoke, foggy
and tastes just like despair.

1 comment:

J said...